


The man who loves you and the man you love

by theladyofcamelias



Series: 5+1 ASOIAF [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Season 8 doesn’t exist as far as I’m concerned, Unrequited Love, rarepairs, unrequited advances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyofcamelias/pseuds/theladyofcamelias
Summary: The five men who wanted Sansa Stark but couldn’t have her and the one man Sansa Stark wanted but couldn’t have.The title is taken from the following quote by Chuck Palahniuk: ‘The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person.’





	The man who loves you and the man you love

**Sandor Clegane**

He wanted her, she realized suddenly, as he wiped a trail of blood from her lips.

She hadn’t noticed, at first, all the little nothings he did for her. She’d been too busy worrying about the king beating her half to death and her brother’s war in the Riverlands to have time to notice the quiet attention she was being given by this tall, half-scared man.

He wanted her, she realized now. That’s why he made sure to escort her everywhere, why his eyes lingered at her form at feasts, at court, in the corridors, why he frequently raised his hand, as though to push a curl of shining auburn hair behind her ear, before remembering himself and curling his hands into fists by his side.

He wanted her. She could use that.

She always made sure to walk closer to him than necessary when he escorted her everywhere, enjoying the catch in his breath when her breast brushed against his biceps. She starts wearing her hair up, because she noticed he likes looking at her pale, long neck. And when he is present when the king has her beaten, she always makes sure to scream harder than she usually would, and to lean on him more than she truly needs to as he escorts her to her chambers

It makes her feel rotten, to use him like this. But really it’s harmless. It’s not as if she had purposely led him on. She always made sure to toe the line between propriety and impropriety while in his presence, but never crossed it.

The truth was he wanted her, but it could never lead to anything, they both knew that. And were Sansa free to choose, she would not have chosen him.

But still she flirts and sighs and wears her hair up and watches him suffer from afar. It pleases her, in a way, that she was not the only one suffering in this hellish place.

  
**Tyrion Lannister**

He desires her this little husband of hers, and she finds it terribly funny.

He would deny it, of course, something about her being way too young, and rebelling against his father. But Sansa knew if she leaned on him just a little bit she could have him.

It was a good thing she did not want to.

He always bought her new clothes. Fine clothes, spun from the most beautiful silks, adorned with the most delicate lace and embroidered so finely the animals seemed on the verge of jumping out of the dress. And jewelry, which he insisted was as repayment for her mother’s jewels which the crown had seized alongside her father, her freedom and her happiness. Sapphires, emeralds and rubies soon adorn her neck, gold and silver chains decorate her throat. The little girl in her rejoices at being given so many fine things.

She always makes sure to wear them when he can see. To seem appreciative, because she is.

He is a kind man, her husband. Always gentle, always attentive. Yet he desires her, and so she cannot trust him. She has seen what desire can do to good men.

And she has no doubt he desires her. His eyes linger on her body as she gets ready for bed, carefully following the graceful dance of her fingers as she removes the pins from her hair, sliding from the swell of her breasts to her hips. She would tease him about it if she were not so terrified he would misunderstand it as an attempt at seduction.

The truth is he is a kind man, but the mere idea of laying with him fills her with dread. So she stays away, wears the loosest nightgowns she can find and prays and prays and prays every night for Tyrion to refuse to exercise his marital rights over her.

He notices, she thinks, and he looks especially saddened by it, but still he gives her space and Sansa doesn’t know wether to cry or laugh in relief at her husband’s unexpected kindness.

**Jaime Lannister**

He comes back one hand shorter, yet he is still as handsome as the first morning she saw him in Winterfell. He is a golden lion though, a Lannister lion, so she treads carefully.

She seeks to avoid him completely at first, until he corners her in a corridor one day and begs a few seconds of her time. He tells her of a vow, a promise he made to her mother and it makes her want to scream and rage. Where was he when the King threatened to rape and murder her? Where was he when his father forced her to marry Tyrion? Where was he when the Kingsguard had her beaten half to death at the king, his son’s, demands?

But she says none of these things, only gives him placid words of reassurance that she is sure he wants to hear. He looks oddly ashamed and relieved at the same time, and Sansa thinks she will never have to see him again. She is wrong.

He finds every possible excuse to spend time with her. He interrupts her breakfasts with Tyrion. He accidentally bumps into her in the gardens and insists on escorting her to wherever she is going. He tells her japes and amusing little stories to help her pass the time and tries to bring her lemon cakes, she wonders who told him they were her favorites, as much as he can.

She doesn’t understand why, doesn’t see why he would spend so much time with her until she sees the familiar cloud of lust in his eyes.

So the Kingslayer wanted her too, she thought grimly. And she suddenly wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. The way his nose lingered just a little too closely to her hair, the way his eyes were fixated on the long curve of her neck and the curve of her bottom lip.

He looks at her differently, like he wanted her, like she was his salvation, his way to redemption, as though she was the Maiden herself reborn. He calls her his ‘sweet girl’, and looks at her longingly when he thinks she can’t see him.

She would be more worried if he could actually do something about it so she shelves that problem for another day.

Then she escapes in the dead of night, becomes Alayne Stone, and forgets all about Jaime Lannister, who wanted Sansa Stark.

**Petyr Baelish**

He doesn’t truly want her, she thinks, she’s just the closest thing to her mother he can get.

It was no secret that he wanted her. She’d known it from the very first second she met him at the tourney King Robert had thrown for her father, even if she hadn’t known how to phrase it yet.

He likes her hair best when it’s copper, hanging loosely around her shoulders, or in a loose braid. But she’s dyed it black now, and she can tell it’s his least favorite part of his plan.

He gives her gifts so fine they made the gifts Tyrion had given her seem like old rags. Dresses spun from silk so fine she felt she was not wearing anything at all, jewels so big she felt they would pull her neck down with their weight, slippers so delicate she didn’t dare wear them outside her chambers in fear of wearing them down, perfumed oils with exotic scents that she would never have dreamed to find in Winterfell, and jeweled hairpins and harps made of solid gold, and a writing desk alongside writing stationary so fine she doesn’t dare use it at first. If the men think it odd for their Lord Protector to spend so much money on lavish gifts for his bastard daughter none of them say a thing.  
  
He likes it, she soon realizes, when she wears the things he got her. She’s like his doll, and it nearly makes her feel sick to think about.

His attentions aren’t shy or discrete like others, they’re brazen, insistent. Hands, lips, lewd suggestions whispered in her ear. She feels as though she’s constantly ducking his kisses, constantly chasing away his groping hands.

She considers herself lucky that he has decided he will not have her screaming and wailing underneath him, that he’d seduce her until she fell into his bed all too willingly.

Let him try, she thinks derisively, no man can tame a wolf.

**Jon Snow**

She doesn’t know wether to be shocked or resigned when she sees the beginning of lust form into her bastard half-brother’s eyes.

His desire for her is quiet, shameful, and it pains her that the one man she thought she could trust desired her so. He never does anything that would make her uncomfortable, anything that would suggest something other than a platonic attachment to his long lost half-sister, and had it not been for Sansa’s practiced skill at reading men, she never would have guessed he felt anything of the sort towards her.

Yet his attentions were there, quiet, always in shameful silence, but there all the same. He gets her sweets, not lemon cakes since those are hard to be found in winter, but candied almonds, sugar pastries, honeyed cakes with cream. He watches her eat them with delight on her face, licking the cream from her fingers and she can see his resolve slipping from his face. He brings her flowers when he can and watches, mesmerized, as she weaves them into her braid. He gives her his furs without asking, without comment, whenever he feels that the winds are too sharp and cold on her skin.

His hands linger for a second longer than they needed too on her skin, and she could see the heat rise in his cheeks every time she bent forward to retrieve something far away on the table, even though he always stares resolutely downwards, his blush a mix of want and shame.

He never presses, never asks, even when they figure out that he’s been her cousin all along. He sits in the shadows, quietly watching her, trying to tend to her needs without appearing clingy, realizing, correctly, that she could never see him as anything other than the brother she used to have snow ball fights with in the courtyards of Winterfell.

So he says nothing, and she doesn’t mention it. And if all she has to do to keep him happy is gulp down a few desserts he gives her, smooth his hair away from his face, and burry herself in his furs...well she’d done much worse than that.

**Gendry Waters**

He’s unbelievably handsome, this blacksmith Jon brings to Winterfell. Built like an ox, with a strong jawline, eyes as blue as the sea and black hair so soft it looked like it belonged anywhere but on a blacksmith’s head.

The simple truth is she wants him. She’s never wanted a man before, not like this, not just for herself.

She makes silly excuses to pass down in the forges to see him, commissions him to do silly tasks to ensure he doesn’t think of leaving Winterfell. What makes her want him, however, is how gentle he is. A man his size could easily intimidate all those around him, be mean tempered and break everything and everyone around him. Yet Gendry is kind and gentle with everyone and everything.

He grips whatever sword she wants for him to fix so delicately, as though he might break it. He rescues a litter of kittens from the snow and raises them in the back of the forges, feeding them scraps of food until they grew and managed to start hunting on their own. He’s never rough with anyone, even when he’s angry. He treats his apprentice kindly, gives the children who run along the courtyard of Winterfell, blissfully innocent, a couple of coppers so they can buy a treat from the village, never raises his voice or his hand at any of the women he speaks to, even the whores.

And for the first time in her life, Sansa wants. She wants so very badly.

She wants his hands, roughened by his work in the forges, to roam her skin, wants him to handle her gently, carefully, as he does all things, wants him to love her and make her forget about every man who dared force his touch on her, who made her feel filthy and used.

But she knows, the second he sees Arya, the way his eyes lit up in joy and relief and some other unnamable emotion, that he would never be hers. He was Arya’s. He always had been.

It’s cruel really, how she’d always been wanted, but never seemed to receive what she wanted. But she’s always known life was cruel so she isn’t surprised.

Inside of her though, she’ll always dream of the black haired blue eyed man she would never have, and weep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! English isn’t my first language so I apologize for any mistakes and please feel free to tell me about them in the comments. This is going to be part of a larger series of oneshots which are all 5+1 and revolve around the ASOIAF and GoT universe. I already have several more ideas and have started working on them. Please tell me your thoughts in the comments, it would make me so happy. Thanks again!


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